


The Fortune-Teller's Tent

by shirogiku



Series: Crack Tents [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternative Universe - Crack, Flint Channels His Inner Rochester, Fortune Telling, Gen, Historical Slurs, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7450612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a new fortune-teller in town, and she has a tent. Mr. Gates gets his giggles on, Billy is very confused, and Silver is the one who ruins the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fortune-Teller's Tent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [academy_x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/academy_x/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [academy_x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/academy_x/pseuds/academy_x) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> I'd love to read something with Gates like him interacting with (his son) Billy or Flint. Could be an au if you want?
> 
>    
>  **A/N:** this is completely silly, but I can also see it happening? hope you enjoy, OP :)
> 
> I use the word 'g*psy' here in the historical context/as a reference to a book, I'm sorry if anyone finds it offensive.

* * *

 

A pirate crew in action is a force to be reckoned with - yes, even when you spy Captain Naft, because then you’re running the risk of dying from laughter. But the moment the infernal hullabaloo dies down, the lads are just that - a bunch of bloody morons, held together by spit, sweat, rum, and Oh Lord in Heaven, not again. And no one knows it better than Hal Gates, Nassau’s veteran supplier of spit, good wishes and hopeless prayers.

 

The big damn pirate problem of the day is shaped like a tent, with ‘Fortunes Told’ flapping in the breeze. Directly below, he reads: ‘Be you Man enough, or be you a cowering puppy’?

 

Such a very philosophical question, coming from a thing so hastily cobbled together and erected right next to the fuck tent.

 

“What do you say, Billy?” Hal claps his boy on the back. “Shall we?” Who could possibly resist the lure of a mystery gypsy woman from dear old Mother England?

 

“I’ve got no idea where she came from!” Billy reports dazedly. “We set up the fuck tent, like always, and then she just… sprang up overnight.”

 

“That’s their way, I hear. Roaming round and round from crop to new harvest, keeping a lusty eye out for gold and gullible men. But we aren’t gullible, are we, Billy?”

 

Billy shakes his head.

 

“Well, then, we’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” With that, he ushers Billy in unceremoniously.

 

The crone is seated in a chair behind a sturdy table. Every inch of her tent - from the canvas to the furniture to the sandy floor - is draped over with rugs, carpets and colourful fabrics. What’s more, the whole place is shrouded in smoke from the burning incense, clogging up your nostrils and mouth and making your eyes water. She blends into her surroundings seamlessly in her red cloak, broad-brimmed black hat, tied down with a black turban scarf under her chin, and generally more layers than worn by the entire brothel’s population taken together. Hal has never seen any of these items before in his life, to be sure. Nor has he caught anyone at rummaging around for them in the dead of night.

 

“One man,” she croaks imperiously over her impressive battery of stout candles, “one fortune.”

 

Hal gives her a _look_. “Make it a good one, mother.”

 

She turns a page in her little black book, lit by the candle-blaze. Muttering to herself, as old ladies are wont to do, she waits for him to leave.

 

He is planning to eavesdrop, of course, but the fuck tent is working itself up to a crescendo. Both of the dirty businesses come to a conclusion more or less at the same time, Billy stumbling out yet more bewildered than before, as if that were possible. Hal elbows him, asking how it went.

 

“I told her my name,” Billy replies after a long pause. “And she sort of _looked_ at me - like she could see right through me - but never at my palm. Told me she sees great things in my future, and a great deal of Spanish gold, too.”

 

“Does she now? How lucky for you!”

 

“Oh, and there’s one more thing - you and I shall crown a king.” Billy sounds disturbed by that last revelation. “She wouldn’t explain what it meant.”

 

Hal glances heavenwards. “A tattoo, Billy. She meant a new tattoo you should definitely get after our next capture.” Billy’s brow smoothes out. “That’s right, you keep frowning like that, and it’ll stick.”

 

He sends Billy on his way, but in reality, the entertainment is only just getting started. He lingers by the tent, acting as if he hasn’t been in yet.

 

“So what does she look like?” he asks a harassed-looking Dufresne.

 

“Ugly as sin, Mr. Gates!”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“A gypsy wench, though.” Dufresne pauses. “It’s a funny thing - I’ve never seen one of them around here before. How did she get to Nassau, I wonder?”

 

“Oh, I expect there's always someone like her around,” is his carefree reply.  “They’re much like preachers. And it’s not like _you_ ever get your nose out of your books.” Dufresne makes a face. “How much did you pay her?”

 

Billy remains the only no-pay customer until Joji shows up… to have his _sword’s_ fortune told. You don’t fuck with Joji, you just don’t, even when you’re a mystical crone.

 

Curiously enough, she seems to spend as much time selling shiny new fortunes as asking after Captain Flint.

 

“A shilling says she wants to marry him,” Muldoon declares with a massive grin. Others begin to cackle or mutter about a witch duel, all in the background and virtually indistinguishable. Hal mostly chokes on his beer. “Hey, if the Cap’n gets married, who officiates?”

 

“Another captain,” Hal answers smoothly. “Captain Naft shall be pleased to do the honours, I warrant.”

 

Before long, they begin naming the children: Urca, Walrus Jr., and Good Fortune. The crone should hear what the future has in store for her.

 

Gates is, after all, only a weak man. A very, very weak man.

 

Billy returns with the new cook in tow. “He’s the last one, Mr. Gates.”

 

“The last one?” Mr. Silver treats them to a trademark hunted-deer look. “Er, what’s happening out here?”

 

Gates takes pity on him and tells him about the gypsy woman.

 

“Oh, I see.” Mr. Silver’s posture relaxes. “It’s like ‘meeting Blackbeard’, is it? Special service, har har?”

 

Billy, who still hasn’t clued in, looks at Hal. Hal, who is about to crack up, looks at Billy. They are, after all, only weak men, and entertainment is whatever _you_ make happen.

 

“Yes,” he replies slowly, steering Mr. Silver towards the flap. “Exactly like that.” After giving him a none too gentle push, Hal circles the tent and cuts a peephole with his knife. “I’ve got neither shame nor sympathy in my shrivelled black heart, God help me.”

 

“None whatsoever, Mr. Gates. But really, she isn’t _that_ scary.”

 

“Oh, she is, Billy. Believe me, she is.”

 

The crone sniffs at Mr. Silver, who is staring at her in expectant confusion (confused expectation?). She prophesies doom and gloom, and a hell lot of potato-peeling.

 

“ _Beautiful_ ,” Hal murmurs.

 

“‘Potato-peeling’,” Mr. Silver echoes. “Everybody else gets kings and pieces of eight, and I get ‘ _potato-peeling_ ’?”

 

“I can also see a bloody death, in your _near_ future,” the crone warns, stuffing her pipe. “Your Captain is a bloody-minded man, is he not?”

 

“Is it because I didn’t pay you?” The new cook approaches the table, picking up the black book while the crone’s hands are busy. “Aha! Thought so! You’re not a real fortune-teller at all, are you? Really, a French novel? What am I saying, _of course_ you aren’t the real deal, but let me tell you, you aren’t very good at acting either.” That being said, he tries to see what’s under the hat.

 

Under the hat is a bloody death made flesh.

 

Billy blanches visibly behind the tan. “But…”

 

Hal sighs. “I haven’t come up with the longer version yet, so let’s just say our captain _really_ wanted to boost our morale.”

 

Mr. Silver runs out of the tent screaming on top of his lungs that the gypsy was the Cap’n all along, the hat clutched tight to Mr. Silver’s chest. What saves his life, in the end, is how few people actually believe him.

 

Dufresne and a couple of likeminded sods approach Hal about getting their money back, which he is forced to arrange out of his own pocket.


End file.
